


The Hands of The King

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Caretaking, Earthling Quentin Coldwater, Fillorian Eliot, First Kiss, Getting to Know Each Other, High King Eliot Waugh, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Protective Eliot Waugh, Shipwrecks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: When the personal ship of the High King of Fillory stumbles upon a shipwreck in a storm at the edge of the Abyss, finding even one survivor is a stroke of luck. But when the survivor proves to be something other than expected, the High King finds himself swept away in a deception that could endanger them both.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 28
Kudos: 304
Collections: Magicians Monthly Prompt Challenge





	The Hands of The King

**Author's Note:**

> I started this in early February as a way to give myself a break from Beautiful Something. Now that I find myself stuck on the final chapter of that, it seemed like a good time to finish this. I hope you're all doing well, and that this can bring you some happiness.
> 
> Many thanks to [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) for the beta reading and the cheer-leading.

_“The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.”_  
_– The Lord of The Rings, The Return of The King_

* * *

It’s on the edge of the Abyss that they find the boy. Caught in the swell of a storm that seemed unending, the Muntjac and her crew are down their sails and simply trying to avoid being blown into the darkness. Eliot would be the first to admit that he’s been of little help in this endeavor, but he’s doing all he can. He hears it first, when the look-out calls out wreckage off the port, spilling out on the storm from the edges of the inky darkness. 

“Search for survivors!” the Captain calls out, and Eliot joins the crew as they rush to do so. There are few bodies in the water, fewer than one would expect from the apparent size of the wrecked ship, but there have long been stories of dragons and other sea monsters dwelling in the darkness of the Abyss. There’s only one who seems to have even a chance of being alive, not face down in the water, a single waterlogged figure sprawled out over a plank of wood. 

“There’s no way we can get to him!” shouts one of the crew, and with the surge of the storm and the crack of lightning around them, the man’s right. There’s no way they can launch a rescue boat in this. But this, at least, is something Eliot can help with.

There’s a surge of mutters around the boat as Eliot reaches out, with his hand to steady the flow of power from inside him, the swell of magic merely an extension of himself as he reaches out, pulling the drifting wood and the figure on it closed to the Muntjac, close enough to start to lift him out of the water. Sweat prickles across Eliot’s brow from the effort of controlling the power, mingling with the rain and the spray of sea water. The crew rush forward once the figure’s close enough for them to catch him, four of the men getting ahold of the boy so Eliot can let him go. 

"Take him to my cabin," Eliot says, rushing to cradle the boy's head as he’s lowered down onto the plank of the ship.

"But sire–"

"If you've been hiding another full bed on this boat, now is the time to speak up, Benedict," Eliot snaps back, holding tight to the unconscious body as the ship rocks in the storm. "We're not going to leave him in a bunk."

"Yes, My King," Benedict acquiesces, bowing in that half-terrified way of his, like Eliot is anything like his predecessor, liable to swing for heads at the first sign of any argument.

With all the patience he can muster, Eliot says, carefully, "I have been useless on this journey. I don't know the first thing about how to sail, and I'm well aware that I merely get in the way when I try. But I can tend to this man. I'm not unfamiliar with the harm that comes to a body neglected from food or water, and I can bind a wound well enough. Take him to my cabin, and then everyone can return to sailing us through this accursed storm, lest we go the same way as his vessel."

And that, as the poets might say, was that.

The boy– man, really, he is obviously not much more than a year or two younger than Eliot himself once the environment is quiet enough to discern his features– the man doesn't appear to be seriously injured, beyond a gash in the meat of his shoulder. It's deep, but has not yet begun to fester, so Eliot makes fast work of removing his dark blue jacket and tunic, and setting about to boil water with as much grace as he can muster in a cabin of a rocking boat, allowing to cool enough to touch until he's left with clean water with which to flush the wound. Grimacing at the loss, Eliot pours some of his own fine distilled spirits over the gash, helpful in deterring inflammation. Then, working quickly, Eliot presses a folded linen shirt, clean and unused so far on the journey, into the wound, binding it tightly with strips of cloth.

His patient groans in his unconsciousness, lids fluttering over rolled back, sightless eyes, but there's little Eliot can do to ease his pain here, with the limited supplies of the ship. The palace healers have shelves full of tinctures and tonics, but all Eliot has at his disposal is the understanding of how one must treat an injury, and a vague knowledge of the ill effects of starvation from the long slog of the war. He knows he must get the boy to drink, but slowly, lest his stomach rebel against the needed fluid. For this, he employs a trick of animal husbandry remembered from his youth, dipping a clean rag in the cleansed water and gently trickling it into the boy's mouth.

They go on like that for some time. While there's no sign of corruption in the wound, the boy's temperature continues to rise, even as he shakes off the chill of the ocean. Eliot finds himself sitting close, the meat of his thigh tucked against the boy's side, lest he be jostled over-much by the turbulent storm. Never one to particularly enjoy sea travel, Eliot revels in the distraction, applying cold cloths to the boy's forehead, the soft underside of his throat.

He is, Eliot thinks as the boat rolls sickeningly again in the storm, breathtakingly lovely. A strong, handsome jawline rough with stubble is softened, some, by the beautiful cupid's bow of his mouth and the elegant slope of his nose, complemented by the strong brow. His long brown hair, stiff with sea-water, has mostly come loose from a leather cord tying it back. It’s been a long time since Eliot has allowed himself to just simply look at a man– a long time since that kind of vulnerability, that kind of open interest, presented anything but a threat. Now, he finds himself with little to do but look, and keep the boy from rolling off the bed. The night drags on, impossibly long. Eliot finds himself talking to the boy, absently, telling him of their journey to the Outer Islands, mostly successful, to convince the local leaders to rejoin the kingdom under its new leadership.

"In truth, I don't think they care who their Kings and Queens are, in name," Eliot says, staring at the wall of the ship as they weather another endless swell. "They want to have control of their own fate, and after this whole accursed war– who am I to blame them? It's not like I wanted to be a king."

A dangerous sentiment to voice at any time, certainly to a stranger who's allegiances Eliot doesn't know. For all he's aware, this boy could be a Chatwin loyalist, a soldier running from the forces sent out by High Queen Margo The Destroyer to eliminate the remnants of High King Martin's army. Eliot finds himself hoping not– it would be a shame to be faced with executing a man he's nursed back to health.

The boy comes to consciousness sometime around dawn– groggy, then afraid, he catches sight of Eliot and then tries to scramble back, going sheet-white as he tries to move his shoulder.

"Easy," Eliot says, soothing, as much as he can. "You're safe, you're aboard the High King of Fillory's personal galley. Can you tell me your name?"

"Quentin," comes the broken response, but at least he's not trying to move away anymore.

"Good, Quentin. Do you feel any injuries other than your shoulder?” A shake of the head, still sheet white, and Eliot finds himself reaching out for the boy’s hand. Quentin grips back immediately, squeezing tightly. “I’m sorry, you must be in a great deal of pain. I can give you some spirits to dull it soon, but you must eat and drink first.”

“Water?” Quentin croaks, and Eliot nods, reaching for the water skin hanging by the bed. He helps Quentin take careful sip, feeling each wince of pain as though he’s experiencing it himself. He manages to take a few more mouthfuls before waving it away, and Eliot nods, corking the skin and setting it within arms reach. “Did anyone else survive?”

“None that we saw,” Eliot says regretfully, looking down. Quentin’s still holding his hand, and Eliot wonders if he’s even aware of it, barely conscious and swimming in pain. “We couldn’t sail into the Abyss to search with the storm as it is, so perhaps there are others who can–” Starve to death in the ocean, realistically. But that’s hardly a comfort. Instead Eliot changes tact. “How long ago were you shipwrecked?”

“A few days,” Quentin breathes out, “I dunno, I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell when everything’s dark all the time.”

His speech is– odd. Eliot feels a prickle of unease start in his spine, and he rubs his thumb gently along the back of Quentin’s hand. Soft hands, unmard by farm work or craftsmanship. “Where are you from, Quentin?”

“Oh,” Quentin blinks, eyes focusing a little on Eliot. “Um– Earth, actually? I– came through with a girl from my school but we went pretty much straight into the Abyss so– what?”

He stops, curious, because Eliot’s squeezing his hand tightly, a shake of the head and a mute look around the cabin. The Muntjac is no warship, built more for comfort and ease of travel and speed than anything else. Eliot’s private quarters are private, and spacious enough that even someone passing through the corridor outside would be hard pressed to hear the details of a conversation spoken at normal volume. All the same–

“I would advise against allowing that information to become common knowledge,” Eliot says, carefully, and– This is an entirely baseless gamble he’s making; playing with not only Quentin’s life but his own. He blames the fatigue of his watchful vigil, and the havoc of the storm, but– The truth is that Eliot has never been comfortable with the viciousness and bloody ruthlessness brought on by war. Now that the war is done– can he not be a merciful king?

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, looking around the room as well as if he might expect to find another observer there as well, as Eliot had. “Well, then thank you, I guess. I think you’ve saved my life twice tonight, and I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Eliot.” Talk of thoughtless gambles, _you give the boy your real name_? But Quentin simply nods, and if he’s telling the truth, if he’s spent no time on the mainland, then how would he know of High King Eliot? His eyes flutter, clearly exhausted, and Eliot reaches for some bread and cheese, offering it up. “Eat, before you pass out again.”

Quentin nods. “Thank you, Eliot,” he repeats, and gods, Eliot’s name sounds good on his tongue. He manages most of the hunk of bread and several bites of cheese, washed down with mouthfuls of water, before the strain becomes too much for him. 

He’s still holding Eliot’s hand when he falls back to sleep.

* * *

As traveling companions go, Quentin proves to be a rather engaging one.

Once he can stay conscious for more than a couple hours, that is. The Muntjac weathers the storm valiantly, truly an example to all heartwood boats everywhere, and they manage to avoid being blown far off course, or thrown into the abyss. The Captain bustles into Eliot's quarters with a self-important knock (truly it's impressive that a knock can be self-important, Eliot has spent years cultivating an air of importance, and even he's impressed) to request that they lower sail and allow the crew to recuperate, to which Eliot agrees, only vaguely understanding why they're asking his permission to begin with. Surely the master of the boat would have a better sense for these things than he would. But if Eliot has learned anything of being king, it's that you're expected by all parties to be all knowing in all quarters– even when you yourself were born into no higher station than they.

Blessed with still waters and an end to the blasted storm, Eliot finds himself able to take some rest, relaxing as much as he is able on the velvet couch across the room. He wakes to find Quentin sitting up, sheet-white and pinched, trying to leverage himself up to sit.

"Oh, here, let me," Eliot begins, ignoring the stiffness in his back and neck from twisting himself onto the tiny couch. He's surely slept in worse places, in the war. He's just– hard pressed to think of any at the moment. Still, he makes it over to the bed, helping Quentin pull himself up, and propping pillows behind him.

"Thanks," Quentin says, pale and shaky still, and again Eliot wishes he had poppy or something else stronger than whiskey to offer him. As it stands, he does not, so whiskey will have to do. He offers the flask of spirit, which Quentin takes with a stiff smile, drinking deeply.

"I should check your wound," Eliot hedges, feeling oddly sheepish about it, which is truly ridiculous. It's not like _he_ slashed the boy's shoulder open. "If you'll permit me..?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sure, go ahead," Quentin says, that strange, Child of Earth speech of his grinding wrong along Eliot's consciousness, but– Eliot's already made his choice, hasn't he? Best commit to it.

The wound shows no sign of infection still, but Eliot decides it best to to proceed with caution. He boils water to purify the bandages, hanging them up to dry in front of the carefully contained fire while he strips the old dressing and carefully prods the edges of the wound with his finger tips, as gently as he is able while still being useful. "I'm sorry, this must hurt a good deal," Eliot says to Quentin, who's quiet, griping at the bed with both hands. "It was hard to be sure last night, with the darkness and the storm, that there's nothing broken, nor any debris in the wounds."

"Sure, that makes sense," Quentin agrees, voice tight, heavy brows drawn down into a grimace. "If– uh, if I pass out again just– do whatever you need."

"Well, let's try to avoid that," Eliot says, lightly, giving Quentin his best reassuring smile. "I'm going to flush the wound again with the hot water; it's not boiling but it will hurt. Do you need something to bite down on?"

"Probably not a bad idea," Quentin admits, and Eliot passes him a leather belt, working as quickly as he can to clean the wound first with water and then more of the spirit. Quentin's quiet until the last, and then nothing more than a muffled groan, his eyes squeezing shut.

"There, that's the worst of it," Eliot promises, reaching for the clean dry strips of cloth, and carefully pressing gash with the bandages, biding it cleanly and firmly, better than he was able to do in the roll of the storm.

"You're good at this," Quentin observes, pale and sweaty, watching Eliot from the mount of pillows as Eliot finishes bandaging his shoulder, then sets about binding his arm to his chest in a rudimentary sling, discouraging him from moving it too much and reopening the wound.

Eliot gives him a weak smile. "I spent a lot of time on the front lines of the war," he explains, helping Quentin back into his shirt. "I learned a lot. Untreated injuries are as likely to kill a man as a beheading is. Perhaps more so, they're easier to inflict."

"Yeah, you sterilized the bandage," Quentin agrees, which is– not a word Eliot knows.

"I– boiled them?"

"Yeah to kill the– but Fillory probably doesn't have a concept of bacteria, does it? So why'd you do it?"

Eliot, who doesn't much appreciate being treated like an idiot, especially by Children of Earth, raises his chin defiantly. "We boil cloth with garlic and witch-hazel to stop corruption of the flesh– herbs run out when you're on the front line. But fewer men die if you boil the bandages without the herbs than if you use untreated cloth. Fewer still if you flush their injuries with alcohol first."

"How long were you at war?" Quentin asks, softly, and Eliot– looks away. Out the window, to where the calm seas of Fillory's ocean stretch out before them.

"Years," Eliot says, simply, and– nearly startles, when Quentin reaches out for him– taking his hand.

"You're good at it," Quentin repeats, kindly, and his hand is so soft in Eliot's– scholar’s hands, definitely. None of the work-rough calluses hiding under Eliot's rings. "Thank you, Eliot. I'm very lucky this ship found me."

There was probably more truth to that than he knew. Corruption of the flesh or no, Quentin would likely not have survived another night in the storm. "You should drink more," Eliot says kindly, squeezing Quentin's hand a little. "And eat, if you're able. Then you can tell me how you came to be stranded in the Abyss."

Hearing the tale of Quentin's adventures must, as it happens, wait a couple hours. He does eat, and drink and with Eliot's help manage to stand on unsteady legs long enough to make use of the washroom. Then he passes out again, drained from the exertion and the pain. Eliot takes this excuse to change himself, and then makes his way above deck to check on the crew. Most of them seem to be asleep or else-ways recuperating on their day of rest, but those left on duty rush to assure their king that they'll be back to the port near Whitespire by the end of the week. Which is a reassuring thought, at least, while Eliot stands around just long enough to feel truly useless one again, then disappears back down below.

There is little to do in the High King’s chambers, beyond reading (which Eliot’s never had a taste for) and reviewing matters of state. That, perhaps, he should do, only he finds himself instead going through the process of boiling– sterilizing?– more bandages instead, preparing to tend Quentin when he wakes. 

Which he does, eventually, near sundown. He allows Eliot to change the bandages at his shoulder, watching him with a thoughtful air, eyes bright and less clouded than they had been earlier in the day. “What was the war about?” Quentin asks, voice soft, and when Eliot looks up at him, startled, Quentin’s mouth is held in a solemn line. Oh, and what a lovely mouth it is, soft pink and bowed slightly, surrounded by rough stubble to match Eliot’s own. Shaving, of course, was something of a dangerous proposition here on the ocean, for rocking boats and unsteady razors would truly be an undignified end to a High King.

Swallowing, Eliot draws away, running his hand over his own jaw. The prickle of beard growth grounded him, leaving him feeling more like himself than he’s had occasion to feel in a while. Smooth skin belonged to the High King of Fillory; for now, in this chamber, he was simply Eliot. It made answering Quentin’s question easier, though nothing could ever dull the horrors of war, the feeling of– men bleeding to death under his hands–

“I’m sorry,” Quentin’s voice cuts through the fog of Eliot’s thoughts, Quentin’s hand circling his wrist, thumb rubbing softly against the pulse point– it’s perhaps the most casual touch Eliot’s felt from someone other than Margo since the coronation, and it makes him shiver. “You don’t have to talk about it– I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”

Eliot can only offer a weak smile in return. “How much do you know of our ways?” Eliot asks, quietly, keeping his voice pitched low so as not to be able to be heard from the hallway. Still, weakness makes him twist his wrist in Quentin’s hand, sliding down until their fingers can tangle together. Quentin seems amenable to the touch, and Eliot– frankly, treasures it. Has he been this hungry for touch all along?

“I– well, I know it’s bad form for an anthropologist to stroll into another culture and claim to know everything,” Quentin says, voice sheepish, expressive tone enough for Eliot to read his meaning even through the words he doesn’t know. “But I have– studied Fillory, academically. It– that’s why I came here. Poppy, the girl from my school, she was hunting dragons, but I came along with her just to have an excuse to get here. My thesis project– what I studied at university, was about Fillory and its connections to other planets.”

“I took you for a scholar,” Eliot confirms, smiling a little, and the corners of Quentin’s mouth curl in response, _oh_ – gods that’s lovely. “If you’ve studied us, you know that our gods built the world in such a way that we would always be ruled by outsiders?”

“Yes,” Quentin agrees, hesitantly, looking nervous for the first time. “That’s not why I came, though, I promise.”

“That’s good to hear,” Eliot says, earnest, squeezing Quentin’s hand in his. “You would not be able to, though, even if you had. You asked about the war– the best place to start that story is when the last High King killed his older brother and took the throne for himself.”

The reign of Martin Chatwin had begun bloody and only worsened from there. Eliot had been a small boy, barely walking, when the usperper began to earn his nickname: High King Martin The Beastly. “They say Martin loved and hated Fillory in equal measure. I was too young, I can’t say for sure. He certainly seemed to hate the people, while doing everything in his power to keep a stranglehold of us.”

“Power has a way of doing that to a person,” Quentin says, frowning a little, watching Eliot with his serious brown eyes.

“You think so?” Eliot asks lightly. Quentin has no way to know, of course, that he’s speaking to Fillory’s current High King, but this worry has troubled Eliot’s heart since Margo placed the crown on his head. “You think any man who comes into power would become addicted to it?”

“Well,” Quentin’s brows wrinkle in thought, truly adorable, and Eliot finds himself wishing absently to smooth his thumb over the crease between them. “I think anyone who sets out to _seek_ power, for power’s sake, isn’t likely to want to give it back. Earth history is littered with examples of that.”

“Maybe it’s Earth that’s to blame,” Eliot muses, feeling something unknot in his chest, a new lightness settling into him. He finds himself oddly soothed by Quentin’s words– for one thing that could never be said about Eliot was that he’d _sought_ power. “In any case, High King Martin was vicious and cruel, he ruled like a tyrant and kept people poor and helpless so no one could challenge him. He would have– _children_ killed, if their parents opposed him, or if they–” _showed certain promise_. Eliot’s fingertips tingle with the potentiality of magic, that ever-so-alluring call, and he shuts it out, focusing on the feeling of Quentin’s skin against his. “But Martin was a Magician, see, and a powerful one. He figured out how to harness the magic of the Wellspring itself, to stop himself from aging. Fillory would never be rid of him– unless Fillorians did something about it.”

“So you started a rebellion,” Quentin surmises, eyes bright, something excited in his voice. “That’s so _Luke Skywalker_ , oh my god.”

“A folk hero of your world, I take it?” Eliot fills in, based on context clues, and for some reason this makes Quentin’s smile grow. Oh, he has _dimples_ – by the gods, that’s not _fair_. 

“You could say that,” Quentin agrees, sliding his fingers through Eliot’s. 

“Well, to say _I_ started the rebellion is giving me far too much credit,” Eliot says, leaning conspiratorially close. If it happens to put him near enough to feel Quentin’s breath on his face– who’s to know? “The rebellion was well underway before it reached me. And in truth I spent more time tending to injuries than causing them.”

“Lucky for me.” Quentin’s voice is soft, kind, and it makes heat squirm in Eliot’s belly. How long has it _been_ , since Eliot allowed himself to feel this?

Dare he allow himself to feel it now?

“You should rest,” Eliot murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away from Quentin’s, warm brown and curious. 

“I’ve been resting all day,” Quentin complains, rolling his eyes, even as he settles back against the pillows. “Tell me more about Fillory? I mean– if you can? I’d like to hear about it. What’s your favorite holiday?”

“When I was a boy, it was Ember’s Day– what small child would turn away from a day devoted to mischief and cakes?”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” Quentin says, watching Eliot as the boat rocks slowly in the calm waters. He’s still holding Eliot’s hand, a kind, gentle touch, and Eliot finds himself curling on to the bed next to Quentin, into the mound of pillows. After two nights spent without a bed to lay on, it feels like an unparalleled luxury.

“Indeed, it was. Now, though, I have to admit that as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate the Winter Solstice.” Quentin hums, curious, interested, bright and warm– so unlike any Child of Earth Eliot’s ever heard of. Pitching his voice suggestively low, Eliot murmurs, “There’s a certain pleasure in hot plum wine and a hearty fire, especially if you have the joy of a warm bed and a companion to share it.”

Quentin, delightfully, blushes. Even more gratifyingly, his eyes flick down towards Eliot’s mouth, lingering for a moment as Eliot’s smile grows. “Sounds like you guys, uh– have really good holidays.”

“Mm, perhaps. It is, at least, something to drive away the darkness of winter,” Eliot allows, settling into the pillows comfortably. Quenitn’s hand is still warm in his. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

“Everything,” Quentin breathes, eyes drawing back up to Eliot’s, and somehow, Eliot believes that he means it.

It’s not Eliot’s plan to fall asleep, there, fingers wound through Quentin’s, but he does, nonetheless. 

The days go on like that, full of conversation and casual touch. Quentin proves as eager for physical affection as he is to learn of Fillory, and it’s been so long since Eliot had an outlet for his tactile nature that it becomes something of a habit. They talk, they talk _constantly_ , even as Quentin begins to regain his strength with aid of the food and water. His shoulder seems to be healing cleanly, too, the angry gash scabbing over neatly, without any heat or puffiness around the wound. 

In exchange for tales of Fillory, Eliot learns of Quentin’s homeworld. Quentin tells him of a university for Magicians, _Break-bills_ , and of a city made of metal, with buildings so tall you could barely see their ends. 

“They’re called skyscrapers,” Quentin tells him, sitting crossed legged on the bed, while Eliot lays on his side, watching Quentin. A poor nursemaid Eliot’s proving to be, so enchanted by his charge that he’s given to lying about for hours. It’s a testament to his poorer sailing, that none of the Muntjac’s crew have come to search for him, beyond mealtimes. “New York is full of them.”

“What happened to York, that it must be made new again?” Eliot asks, curious, and Quentin blinks, startled. There’s a particular look of surprise and confusion Quentin wears, whenever Eliot asks a question so outlandish he would never have thought to prepare an answer.

“Well, nothing– it’s still there. It’s just on another continent. People, explorers, traveled the world hundreds of years ago, and when they made new cities, they named them after old ones.”

“So the people of Earth lack originality,” Eliot surmises, earning himself a glare.

“You’re Fillorian, from a country neighboring one called Loria, on a planet called Fillory. Don’t even come at me,” Quentin says, squinting, and Eliot can’t help himself, he bursts out laughing. It feels _good_ to laugh. Especially when it earns him Quentin’s dimples in return. 

It does occur to Eliot, as they draw ever-nearer to Whitespire, that the longer he neglects to mention his kingship to Quentin, the harder it will become to explain. And yet to be treated as Quentin does, without a hint of reverence– real or feigned but with a good deal of affection... the idea of losing that is simply unbearable. So he does not speak of it, even the day the Muntjac is to make port in Whitespire. 

He wakes that morning much as he has the last few dawns– on the bed in the High King’s quarters, a light blanket thrown haphazardly over his legs, and Quentin’s hand curled around his bicep. It’s the only point of contact between them, and yet Eliot still feels it like a brand: the breadth of Quentin's palm, the heat of it. Eliot watches his companion sleep, and slowly starts piecing himself back together again, so he can walk off this ship and be High King Eliot once more. These stolen days of private personhood must remain that– stolen, and private.

Then he extricates himself from Quentin, slipping into the washroom to change into more formal attire– nothing quite so elaborate as his full royal regalia, of course, but approaching it. Quentin’s blinking awake as Eliot returns to the room, sitting up on the bed, rumpled and disoriented. Eliot allows himself a moment, a brief imagining, that this could be a life he might lead– emerging to begin his day to the sight of a partner, chosen not for political alliance, but for affection and respect. 

But it’s a foolish thought, born of animal attraction coupled with loneliness. Surely Quentin wants to return to Earth, and even if he did not– it would be foolish to think he would choose to stay with Eliot. Particularly once he learned what a dangerous position being near Eliot would put him in.

No, best to cut the rope now, lest the fall get any more painful.

“I’m needed above,” Eliot says, and what he intended to be a formal statement is softened by the swell of affection in him as Quentin yawns hugely. “We’re coming into port soon. I imagine they’ll take you to healers as soon as we dock.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes out, blinking, and Eliot draws closer to him as if pulled by a magnet. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, watching as Quentin shifts so they’re facing each other. “Will I see you again?”

Now, of course, would be the moment. Now is when he should speak. “I– I’m not sure,” Eliot stutters out, cowardly, looking away from Quentin and then back. Then, more honestly, “I hope so.” 

“Me too,” Quentin agrees, a sad little half-smile on his face. “I don’t know how I’d ever repay you for what you’ve done for me, but. I’m really grateful.”

“It’s not necessary,” Eliot says, quiet, and gods, what would he give to be able to curl back down into the bed, and draw Quentin to him? A kingdom? Well– not quiet. “Goodbye, Quentin. May your road be safe and secure, wherever it takes you.”

“Eliot–” Quentin starts, grabbing out at Eliot’s shoulder as he moves to stand. 

Then he’s pushing up into Eliot’s space, lips meeting lips in a soft, sweet kiss. Eliot’s eyes fall closed on instinct, stunned, _breathless_ , as Quentin kisses him, stubble-prickly and warm. It sends a bolt of excitement shooting into Eliot’s stomach, stealing his breath as Quentin draws back, a little half-smile on his face. “In case I don’t see you again,” he offers, something by way of an explanation as he settles back onto his haunches, hands folding in his lap. “I hope I do.”

“I– Quentin,” Eliot breathes, and everything in him is screaming to pin Quentin back against the bed, to _have him_ , before he loses the chance. But instead, he simply reaches out, tucking Quentin’s long brown hair behind his ear as he’s been longing to do for days. “I hope that as well.”

Then he flees. 

* * *

Quentin is brought before Kings and Queens and counsel the next day. One evening left to rest and recover under the supervision of the palace healers, and then he must be called to answer for himself. Eliot would have pushed the day off indefinitely if possible, but any delay would rouse suspicion. Eliot’s account of Quentin's origins, vague though they had been, seemed enough to satisfy most concerned parties. It would likely be a short interview, a mere formality. There is, of course, the issue of Eliot’s kingship, and Quentin’s lack of knowledge regarding it. There was no way to warn him, and Eliot finds himself regretting his secrecy. The pleasure of being treated with candor and equality was not worth Quentin’s life. There’s nothing to do besides hope, as Quentin’s shown into the room, that he will be able to navigate the proceedings carefully. The surprise on Quentin’s face upon seeing Eliot in his throne is immediate, then immediately masked. Good, he has some survival instinct then, they might endure this yet.

“May I present,” Tick says in his most sanctimonious voice, the pompous twit– “Queen Fen the Just, King Bayler the Valiant, High Queen Margo the Destroyer, and High King Eliot the Spectacular; First and Only Fillorian Rulers of Fillory.” 

Quentin bows awkwardly, heels together in his shiny black boots. Affection surges up followed immediately by anxiety, and Eliot ignores both feelings, looking off to his left past Fen, affecting an air of disinterest as to his right, Margo begins to speak.

“We’re given to understand that you and many others were part of a doomed expedition hired by a Child of Earth to chart The Abyss,” Margo starts, with the cool distance of leadership that she’s worn so well, which Eliot still struggles to find. Hesitantly, Quentin nods, with a quiet ‘ _Yes, ma’am_.’ Margo folds her hands in her lap, her one good eye sharply fixed on Quentin. “Then you are one of the many who have fallen victim in this land to the selfishness of Children of Earth. As the First And Only Fillorian Rulers of Fillory, we extend our apologies to you for being unable to protect you from this fate.”

“And yet, you are not Fillorian,” Bayler says, being as he is: a suspicious, blood-thirsty asshole. “No one here knows you, or has heard of your family name.”

“There are,” Eliot says delicately, not bothering to look at Quentin or Bayler or anyone, choosing instead to examine the brocade on his jacket sleeve, “Many places in this world besides Fillory, Bayler. Perhaps he’s a member of the Floating Mountain Tribe, or a cast-off from the Outer Islands. It makes little difference.”

“He could be a Child of Earth! You’re far too trusting, Eliot.” Gasps and mutters fill the hall at such a blatant show of disrespect. As ever, Eliot feels the knife’s edge he must walk every day shift under his boot. It would have been safer never to begin this charade at all, to simply turn Quentin over to the guard and pretend he didn’t know what was going to happen to him, as he had so many times during the war. But no, Eliot couldn’t do that, not with anyone he’d nursed to health with his own hand, and never to Quentin, who has proven himself to be kind and curious and respectful, all the things no Child of Earth has ever been. Quentin had come to study, not to rule. Who was Eliot to condemn a man for that?

“Quentin, what is the traditional food consumed for the spring Ember’s Day festival? How is it different from the fall?” Eliot asks lazily, crossing his legs and regarding the boy with all the ease he can muster. Quentin seems to take heart in it, bluffing exceptionally well in the face of Eliot’s reassurance. It’s charming, really, Eliot must play cards with him some time.

“Little cakes,” Quentin answers, frozen stock still with his hand clasping his wrist behind his back, as he has been since he entered the chamber. “In the fall they’re flavored with honey and sap, but in the spring they’re iced with white to mimic Ember’s— blessing.”

A delicate pink flush across Quentin’s cheek as he says it, but Fen and Margo both nod, clearly satisfied. Bayler’s still looking mutinous. “When was the last time a Child of Earth bothered to learn our customs?” Eliot asks the room at large, to much assent and general muttering. “Quentin may not be of the Fillorian state, but we have no reason to distrust him. You’re far too eager for blood, _Bayler_.” 

Bayler sits back in his throne, tough jaw working. To Eliot’s left, Fen shifts uncomfortably, and Eliot feels suddenly sorry for her, that she’ll likely be left soothing Bayler’s temper. Even if the romantic spark between them had died during the war, Bayler still considered her an ally in the face of Margo and Eliot’s unified front. Eliot will have to check-in with her later, make sure she’s not feeling resentful or ostracized again.

To his right, Margo is speaking again. “We are willing to provide you with an escort to any of the Fillorian borders, if you wish to return home. We’re also more than willing to welcome you into our land, should you choose to stay. Many Fillorians died in the Reclamation, leaving homes and jobs aplenty, here in the capital and elsewhere. Perhaps on the coast, if you’re more the sea-faring sort.”

Quentin smiles, a little thing, just a small curl at the edge of his mouth. “I think I’ve had enough sea travel to last me a life-time, My Lady.”

“I believe our young friend is a scholar,” Eliot says, another carefully calculated gamble. “He explained to me that the Child of Earth hired him with the promise of higher learning, rather than gold or power. Perhaps he could be useful in the General University project?” This he says to Fen, who’s eyes light up.

“Are you a teacher, Quentin?” she asks, bright and bubbly, perching forward on the edge of her chair.

“I could be– that is I’d– I’d be happy to try,” he stutters, a look of excitement to match Fen’s on his lovely face. “A General University? Here in Whitespire?”

“Near by, at least,” Fen agrees, that bright smile on her face that says she still struggles for distance as much as Eliot does. “High King Martin kept Fillorians in the dark and refused to allow us to learn or in any way better ourselves. It ensured that the Children of Earth were more powerful, because they were more educated. One of the first projects after the Reclamation is to offer a means of education to all Fillorians.”

“I would be honored to help with that,” Quentin says, quiet but sincere, and some tension Eliot didn’t know he was holding onto releases. 

“Oh, wonderful!” Fen says, bright-eyed, clapping her hands together. “We’ll find a place for you to stay, either here in the palace or somewhere in the city.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Quentin agrees, bowing a little to Fen, adorable and sweet. 

“Perhaps Quentin would enjoy seeing The Armory,” Eliot says, in a clear tone of dismissal, gesturing lazily to one of the guards standing around the edge of the chamber. “Show him there, please, and then let him be. He’s not our prisoner.”

And with that, Quentin is gone, exiting the chamber as a guild master from the Brass City enters, bowing before the Kings and Queens as Tick rattles off their titles yet again. And so it goes.

* * *

Quentin is still in The Armory, hours later, when Eliot goes by to check. He’s absorbed in a book in his lap, shiny black boots removed so he can pull his feet up onto the stone dias under him. Eliot stops to just– watch him for a moment, hale and hearty, engrossed in the text. His fine brown hair is sliding out of the little knot at the base of his skull, falling into his face, and Eliot’s fingers itch to hook it back, behind his ear. Haunted, yes indeed he’s haunted by that gifted kiss, bestowed not upon the High King of Fillory, but merely to Eliot whom Quentin seemed to like and trust. 

Gone now.

Straightening up, Eliot clasps his hands behind his back and clears his throat a little, watching Quentin startle in response. He looks up to see Eliot standing in the door, and then scrambles to his stocking-clad feet, nearly face planting into the dais as he stutters out, “Oh! Your Majesty, I didn’t–”

Eliot tries not to let his heart sink too much, steady and tall, as he walks into the room. “There’s no need for that, Quentin.”

Quentin’s eyes flick up immediately to the crown ringing Eliot’s brow, cool metal and glimmering dark stone. The emblem of rock and fire, the sturdy structure and solid foundation, everything the High King was expected to be for Fillory. How he longed for Fen’s crown, the mercurial water, or Bayler’s, with the changeability of air. Absently, he reaches up and removes the crown, hooking it delicately over one of the battle axes displayed on the Armory wall. “Better? Now I am as you knew me.”

The corner of Quentin’s mouth quirks, flicking down over the brocade of Eliot’s jacket, delicate silk better than anything he would dare to wear at sea. “Perhaps,” Quentin agrees, but he retakes his seat, the book folded closed in his lap. “You know, when you warned me against telling anyone... where I come from, I assumed you meant the High King.”

Eliot nods, carefully takinging a seat next to Quentin on the dias. It’s far from the closest they’ve been to each other, but the air between them seems to crackle with electricity. “Indeed, I would have advised you not to tell the High King, as he would be honor-bound to have you executed, lest he be named a traitor to his own state and meet that same fate himself. How lucky for us then that you spoke merely to Eliot.”

“Right,” Quentin says, an unhappy downward turn to his mouth, with his strange speech patterns. He’d seemed able to fake it well enough, in the council chambers– but still.

“Quentin, Margo’s offer was in earnest, we would escort you to the borders, from where you could make your own way home. You run a great risk staying here.” Eliot’s hands itch to touch, and he flexes them, straightening his fingers so he doesn’t curl them around Quentin’s wrist, solid and furry. “Surely, you must have– someone, who would miss you? A family or a– a sweetheart.”

Quentin’s breath huffs out in a laugh, just a quiet thing, his eyes flickering to the door as he says “Do you get kissed by people with sweethearts often?”

Eliot did, as a matter of fact, or he used too. Used to make something of a habit of it, in all truth, but– such behavior would be beyond unseemly, in a king. “Something else, then, calling you back.”

Quentin shakes his head, biting his lip. “My father died,” he says, eventually, still looking out the door. “He was all I had. I wasn’t really expecting to go back after Poppy’s expedition. Either I’d die in the Abyss or I’d move on to somewhere else. I can always do that, later, right?”

“I suppose you can,” Eliot agrees, ignoring the twist of pain in his heart. “Fen will keep you occupied, in the meantime, I’m sure. The University Project will benefit all of us, but it’s her passion that drives it. It’s the reason she is Queen.”

“And what’s the reason you’re High King?” Quentin asks, a little bit of color to his voice– flirtation? Perhaps?

Eliot reaches out, not with his hands but with his mind, to the swell of magic in the air, grasping it and tugging the door to the Armory closed with it, a gentle thump. Quentin’s eyebrows go up, startled, and Eliot smiles weakly. “It’s rare for Fillorians to show an aptitude to control magic. The majority of us live with it, but can no more easily control it than one can control the course of a river. Margo and I both show aptitude– and were marked for death by Martin Chawtin for it. I never sought to be a King, Quentin, much less a High King. I was born a farmer, and while that was not to my taste I thought, perhaps, if I could get the money, I might open a tavern...” He trails off, looking away from Quentin’s earnest face. It feels silly now, this youthful ambition. Nevermind that he can see the layout of the building still, in his mind’s eye, nearly smell the smoke of the crackling fire and taste honey mead on his tongue.

“I’d go to your tavern,” Quentin says, quietly, and when Eliot looks up again, there’s a warmth to him. “For what it’s worth. Is that the only magic you can do? Moving things with your mind?”

Eliot nods. “Yes. Margo can make knives of ice in the air, but– that’s all either of us have been able to do.”

A thoughtful hum, and Quentin’s holding his hand out. Confused, Eliot takes it, but Quentin laughs, startled. “No, hey– do what I do, okay?” He lets go of Eliot’s hand with a squeeze, smile on his face, and Eliot lays his hand out like Quentin’s: flat, palm up. 

He mimics the movements of Quentin’s fingers, and it’s like– it’s like holding a fishing net in a stream, aware always of the current but with nothing to fight against until something swims into the net. Like that, except he is both fish and net, and the magic is the river and the fish, and something inside him hooks into the current of magic and _blooms_ , as a flower blossoms to life on his palm, the same as the one in Quentin’s except Eliot’s is purple and Quentin’s is yellow and– Eliot’s crumples away first, because he’s too busy laughing with delight to finish the movements, full of a giddy wonderment he hasn’t felt since boyhood.

“I think you can do more than move stuff,” Quentin says lightly, and then lets out a small ‘ _oof_ ’ as Eliot tackles him into a hug. “Probably a lot more. Magic that manifests without training must be _strong_.”

“Will you teach me?” Eliot asks, drawing back to hold Quentin by the shoulders. “I’m sure Fen will have you busy with the University, but there must be– will you teach me more of this?”

“Of course,” Quentin agrees, earnest, looking up at Eliot with his big brown eyes, and all at once Eliot’s aware again of how close they are. “You literally saved my life, I owe you _so_ much. And I mean– it’d be an excuse to see you, right?”

This last is said shyly, sweetly, leaving Eliot with a familiar prickle of excitement, the energy of wanting and being wanted. “I should think it would, yes,” Eliot agrees, giving in to the desire he’s been fighting and reaching up, catching the loose strand of Quentin’s hair and tucking it behind his ear. “But you owe me nothing, Quentin. I didn’t save your life to incur a debt.”

“Then I’ll do it because I want to,” Quentin agrees, tilting his head towards Eliot’s hand. “For the love of magic, and as a favor to a friend.”

“Not a service to your High King?” Eliot teases, watching Quentin’s eyes sparkle with mischief. 

“I’m not sure he’s my High King, yet. I don’t even have a place to live,” Quentin points out, swaying closer. The current between them is not magic, it’s something sweeter and more familiar. “Maybe I’m offering my services to Merely Eliot, Ambitious Future Tavern Owner.”

The kiss, when it happens, is a sweet thing made filthy by the way Quentin simply _yields_ himself. A breath and a sigh, and his mouth falls open under Eliot’s, tongue velvet soft as he licks against Eliot’s lips, a tempting invitation. Eliot’s hand fits just perfectly at the base of his skull, and oh, he’s pushing up into Eliot’s touch, practically climbing into his lap, _starving–_

There’s a thunk outside the room, and they both pull away, startled, and then breathlessly giggly. Quentin’s cheeks are stained pretty pink with a flush, and Eliot _yearns_ , all of a sudden, to trace that heat with the tip of his nose. With his mouth. To discover how far down the blush might go. It’s been so _long_ since Eliot felt desire for a man he could actually _have_ , someone interested in him not for power or political gain, but who he could trust would not leave Eliot with a knife in his back or a rope around his throat.

And he does, oddly, trust Quentin. He has, since he awoke on the Muntjac, delirious and confused and spilling dangerous truths.

“I feel like I should make a joke here about other services I can offer you,” Quentin says, still blushing deliciously, and oh, now Eliot’s thinking of that as well– “But I think they’re probably going to think I’m like– trying to assassinate you, or something, if we disappear right now.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Eliot agrees, watching, entranced, as Quentin licks his lips. “Will you dine with me tonight? I– It’s strange, but I found I missed your company last night.” 

“I did too,” Quentin agrees, reaching out briefly to squeeze Eliot’s hand. “I’d love to, Eliot.”

“Then we should find you a place to stay, for the time being,” Eliot says, pulling away with some reluctance. He stands, taking Quentin’s wrist with the intention of pulling him out of the room. “Perhaps a house in the village will present itself in due course, but there are rooms aplenty in the palace for now. Come, we’ll find Raffe.” 

“Wait,” Quentin says, half a laugh, dragging his heels until Eliot comes to a stop. Quentin tugs away from Eliot’s hand and Eliot lets him go, only realizing when Quentin walks over to it that his crown is still hanging suspended from one of the axes. “Can’t leave this here, can you?”

Quentin holds the crown out, and Eliot grins, ducking his head down in offer. It feels lighter, somehow, when placed there by Quentin’s hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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